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AFTERGLOW 



By 

JAMES FENIMORE COOPER, JR. 

CAPTAIN, F. A., N. A. 




NEW HAVEN 
YALE UNIVERSITY PRESS 

LONDON • HUMPHREY MILFORD • OXFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS 

MDCCCCXVIII 






Copyright, 191 8, by 
Yale University Press 



FEB 28 1319 



CI.A5L2460 



'"HjC I 



FOREWORD 



Among the young graduates of Yale who have 
given their lives for their country during the pres- 
ent war, none was of finer spirit and fairer 
promise, than Captain James Fenimore Cooper 
of the 308 th Field Artillery, who died of pneu- 
monia at Camp Dix, Wrightstown, N. J., on 
February 17, 191 8. 

A great-grandson of the novelist, and a son of 
James and Susan Linn (Sage) Fenimore Cooper, 
of Albany and Cooperstown, Captain Cooper 
was born at Albany on March 10, 1892. He was 
prepared for college at the Albany Academy and 
the Taft School, Watertown, Conn., and was 
graduated from Yale with the class of 19 13. As 
an undergraduate, he won high social and aca- 
demic distinction: was a member of Alpha Delta 
Phi, Phi Beta Kappa, Chi Delta Theta, the Elihu 
Club, the Class Day Committee, and secretary 
of the Elizabethan Club — a list of honors which 
will serve as testimony to the range of his liter- 
ary and scholarly activities, for all who are famil- 
iar with Yale life. At the time of his death he 
held the position of class secretary. He was the 
first member of his class to die in the service. 
After graduation Cooper spent a year or more 

7 



in Europe and the West, and somewhat over 
two years at the Harvard Law School. He was a 
diligent and successful student of the law, but 
the profession did not appeal to him as a career. 
His health had never been robust, and after a 
nervous breakdown, he left Cambridge; and, 
late in 19 16, went to Mesa, Arizona, where he 
occupied himself for a time in teaching at the 
Evans School. His plans were somewhat unset- 
tled, but his real interests and ambitions were 
those of a man of letters; and at the time when 
his country entered the war, he was looking for- 
ward to the life of a farmer, with leisure for writ- 
ing and study; and expecting to live at Coopers- 
town, a locality singularly beautiful in itself, for 
which he had the deep affection of a lover of 
nature, and which was dear to him on account 
of generations of family association. 

The war, which brought him death, brought 
him also opportunity — opportunity for unques- 
tioning and decisive action. He entered the first 
officers' training camp at Madison Barracks, and 
graduated in August as a First Lieutenant of 
Field Artillery. Early in the winter of 19 18 he 
was promoted to a captaincy. He showed great 
aptitude for military work, and became so much 
interested in the artillery service, that he had 
made up his mind, if he survived the war, to re- 
main in the army until he had thoroughly mas- 
tered that branch. His strong desire was to get 
to France and into active service at the front, 
where, at this writing, his battery (Battery B.) 

8 



is under the command of his younger brother. 
But it was not to be. The exposure of artillery- 
drill and camp life brought on an attack of pneu- 
monia, which proved fatal in less than two weeks. 
The uncomplaining fortitude with which he bore 
the sufferings of his last days made a deep im- 
pression upon his doctors and nurses; and hun- 
dreds of letters, written to his parents by his 
school and college mates and instructors and by 
a wide circle of family friends, all expressing a 
sense of personal loss, bear witness to a singular 
sweetness and generosity, frankness and cour- 
tesy which endeared him to all. In them is shown 
unusual recognition of a character which never 
departed from the determination to do what was 
right and to be kind and just to all. 

A few of the poems here collected were con- 
tributed to the Yale Literary Magazine and other 
college and school periodicals; but for the most 
part, they are now printed for the first time. 
This is of the nature of a memorial volume, 
whose contents derive a pathos from its author's 
early and heroic death. But no indulgence is 
asked on that account. Without wishing to com- 
pare these verses with the work of such * 'inheri- 
tors of unfulfilled renown" as Rupert Brooke 
and Alan Seeger, one finds in them a refinement 
of feeling, a sense of rhythm and poetic form, 
which give promise of future achievement. They 
are mainly subjective and introspective, the ex- 
pression of moods: moods of high though vague 
aspiration, of self-searchings and unsettled aims. 



But attention should be drawn to the spirited 
Ballad of the Lost Dutchman, one of the last 
poems written, as showing a decided advance in 
objectivity, concreteness and maturity of style. 
This was found in Captain Cooper's portfolio 
after his death; as was also the short essay en- 
titled Religioriy printed at the end of the volume. 
This was written over a year ago, and very prob- 
ably did not express his final views; but is ap- 
pended to the poems on the supposition that it 
will be interesting to his friends as a point in his 
development, and as evidence that his mind was 
grappling sincerely and courageously with the 
deepest questions of life. 

Henry A. Beers. 



io 



CONTENTS 



"At the Quiet Close o 
Singers — 191 6 . 


f Day 


>» 


Facing 


r P a i e 4 
15 


A Breeze 








16 


The Surf 








17 


Omar Khayyam 
Sir Galahad 








18 

!9 


The Seer 








21 


Alone in the Minster 








22 


Failure 








2 3 


The Shadow 








24 


Valkyrie Song . 
Experience 
Spirit Song 
The Last Triumph 








25 
26 
27 
28 


Possession 








3 1 


Song 

The Moon View 








32 
33 


Ballad 
Night 
Fate 
Ambition . 








35 
• 36 

37 
38 


The Great Quest 
A Memory 
To a Friend 








39 
40 

41 



II 



The Old and the New 

Complaint 

Winter .... 

The Boston Symphony Orchestra 

A Meeting 

To a Stone Nymph . 

A Returning 

Rebellion 

Death .... 

Realization 

To S. M. S. 

Wayfarer's Song 

Creation .... 

To Betty 

A Heretic to His Mistress 

Isolation .... 

Affirmation 

The False Hope 

Ethel Leginska 

Friendship 

Ave .... 

The Sonnet 

Presence and Absence 

Poetry .... 

Paganism .... 

An Answer 

The Tryst 

The Ballad of the Lost Dutchman 

War .... 

A Wish for My Book 

"When Pleasure Dies" 

Religion .... 

12 



43 

44 

45 
48 

49 
50 

5i 

52 

53 

54 

55 

57 

58 

59 
60 

64 

65 
67 
69 
70 

7i 
72 

73 
75 
76 

79 
80 

81 

87 
89 

9i 
93 



AFTERGLOW 



SINGERS— 19 16 

r 

Are ye forgot, ye voices of the past — 

Keats, Milton, Wordsworth, Chaucer, and ye 

throng 

Of others who excelled in lofty song ? 

Is your unbroken line to end at last? 

Where is that seer who scorns the common 

blast 

Of praise or blame — who stands aloof and 

strong 

And utters fiery words, words that belong 

With theirs, through all the ages to stand fast? 

Think not to wear their vestments, O ye vain 
Ye weak and tinsel singers of a day; 
Only high service wins the poet's name. 

Turn ere too late — fan ye the dying flame 

Of patriotism in the land, and say 

That death is naught if honor yet remain. 



15 



A BREEZE 

r 

O, ever, ever do I wend 

My listless way, and ever dream 

Of meads where scented poppies bend 

O'er Lethe's stream. 

I search through many a hidden glen, 
Stirring the wild flowers as I go; 
And sadly do the lilies then 
Sway to and fro. 

Or often in some silent grove, 
When autumn's tints are chilled to brown, 
Amongst the withered leaves I move 
And waft them down. 

The pine trees ever sigh to me 
And at my passing rest again; 
But I must wander endlessly, 
Searching in vain. 

O, ever, ever must I wend 

My listless way, and still I dream 

Of shadowy meads where poppies bend 

O'er Lethe's stream. 



16 



THE SURF 



To-night the murmur of the sea 
Comes sadly, as the chill winds blow. 
A mist hangs o'er the rocks below, 
Where breakers follow ceaselessly. 
Thus, ages back, on some dim strand 
Its fingers stretched beneath the shade 
Of mighty, listless fronds, and played 
That same low note upon the sand: — 
Now keener drives the wild night air, — 
Hark! For the voice of Time is there. 



17 



OMAR KHAYYAM 

I listened to the Sage of Naishapur, 
And, as each lovely image drifted by, 
I thought I caught amongst the words a sigh 
Of vague regret, which no denial would cure. 

Yet all was languorous and crystal-pure; — 
As drowsy eastern gardens heaped up high 
With heavy-scented roses, oft deny 
Haphazard beauty, and by art allure. 

Dreamer of Persia! Would I were content 
To cast aside all thinking, and with thee 
To linger ever, careless of the rest ! 
They say thou art deceived, and thine at best 
Is hollow comfort; — yet how magically 
Thy silvery voice steals from the Orient ! 



18 



SIR GALAHAD 

r 

How cheerlessly the grasses bend, 
Before the evening breeze, and gleam 
In shadowed traceries, and blend 
In ever-restless curves ! I seem 
E'en so to wander, aimlessly, 
As in a dream. 

Mist-like, he came when first the heat 
Drew silently a charmed haze 
Above the hills; the drowsy beat 
Of noon came faintly through the ways 
And devious windings, where the road 
Lay all ablaze. 

A moment, flashing white, he stood 
Beside a mighty, milk-white steed; — 
White was his shield amid the wood, 
Like the cold moon, when first the seed 
Is stirring, and the naked limbs 
Wave o'er the mead. 

He spoke; — I scarce know what he said 
Or what I answered: mystically 
His deep eyes shone, as far ahead 
Half-seeing, what no man might see, 
Half-seeking some strange vision known 
To such as he. 

19 



E'en as a mist he passed away: 
Which drifts amongst the dreary rows 
Of reeds, when first the coming day 
Lights in the east, and palely glows 
O'er swamp and hill. I wonder yet 
Whither he goes. 

And now he seems to gaze at me 
With deep, unquailing eyes, and now 
His voice is in the winds which flee 
Through yonder pines: "It is my vow: 
Maiden, I follow on my quest, 
Nor know I how." 



20 



THE SEER 



Still do the people clamor? I am old 

And know that all is vain. Am I a seer? 

And must I still be taunted and reproached 

With that strange striving for an unknown 

truth 

Which once I thought was life ? Come, tell them, 

then, 

That I have found the peace that is beyond; 

And ever does the vision haunt me now. 

There is a mighty river darkly flowing 

Down through the fertile valleys it has carved — 

Along the dreary swamp-lands it has formed — 

Toiling mysteriously, time without end; 

Now silent feeding many a glimmering land — 

Now moaning slumberously through all the 

night, 

Swollen with many floods. And now behold 

City on city springing to the light, 

And gleaming opalescent on the bays, 

Drawing their life from off the brimming stream; 

And lo! innumerable fleets that ply 

From side to side upon the water's face. 

I hear the strife of many by the shores, 

Some crying that the stream is guided down 

From some still valley in the shadowy hills, 

And others, that it poureth of itself: 

And now the cities crumble and are gone, 

But still the river toileth ceaselessly. 

21 



ALONE IN THE MINSTER 



The slender waxen candles gleam 
In upward straining points of light; 
The grey walls glimmer in their beam, 
To rise in shadow out of sight. 
Ah! lightly press the ancient keys! 
Quickly the first chord, wild and low, 
Starts from the sombre pipes, and flees, 
An ever-growing, quavering flow — 
Far upward, to the empty roof, 
Amid the soaring Gothic maze; 
An echo, distant and aloof; 
A presence, 'mid the ghostly blaze 
Of haloed lights; now swelling deep 
With added voices, growing still 
In curious sadness, full of sleep — 
Slow changing turns of chords, that fill 
The soul with awe. For even death 
Has not effaced the master mind 
Of one at least, whose very breath 
Breathes in half-magic tones enshrined. 
Hark! For the music of a soul 
Is present, filling once again, 
The dim cathedral halls, where stole 
Innumerable souls of men. 



22 



FAILURE 



Cold is life, as a vast grey sea, 
Creeping beneath a shrouded sky; 
And still I drift, and would be free, 
Following shapes that ever fly; 
Grasping at fleeting phantom things 
That beckon, and soon go by. 

Now they pass me on every side, 
Steering ahead with eyes aglow; 
They skim adown the seething tide 
Following signs I may not know; 
Slowly the mists creep in again, 
The glimmerings come and go. 

O to sail as the Norse of old, 

Off from the sandy beach and away — 

To face the wind-worn realms of cold, 

Beating to southward, day by day, 

Over the weary seas; ahead 

The gleam of the silent bay. 



23 



THE SHADOW 

r 

Men struggle onward with a halting stride, 
Perhaps spurred on by some vague hope ahead- 
Or, oftener held back and falsely led 
By those too weak to hazard the untried. 

As ever when the way lies clear and wide, 

And some, inspired, cry Forward ! comes 

instead 

A feeble clinging to a hope long dead; 

An empty terror, whispering, * 'Abide. " 

As when an evening traveller winds his way 
Through dreary fastnesses, yet presses down 
And views the valley yellow with the sun; 

He treads the shadow of the peaks long won, 
And turns, confused, to face again the frown 
Of rocks, which still cut off the light of day. 



24 



VALKYRIE SONG 

r 

Down through the mountain ways 

Of the dim north, 

Keenly our helmets blaze 

As we burst forth — 

On toward the battle's clash 

Fiercely our storm-steeds we lash. 

Clear comes the rhythm of blows 

The cold sword's ring, — 

Forward the victor goes, 

The lean ranks swing! 

Swift fall the trampled dead; 

Swift flows the heart-blood's deep red ! 

Choose we the heroes slain, 
Up, with them, up — 
For they shall drink again 
Of the rich cup, — 
Wildly we'll feast them all 
In great Valhalla's blest hall. 



25 



EXPERIENCE 

r 

I loved them never, these sombre tales- 
Dost thou still speak more? 
Is it of how the strong soul fails, 
Dying, where life was free before? 
Say what my care avails ? 

It was not so in the bright years past, 

Then thou mad'st no moan; 
The greatest truth need not come last — 
Or must I harden my heart to stone 
That reason may yet stand fast? 

No! But thou shalt not pass me by! 

I will drink thee deep; 
Even if pleasure's lure must fly, 
Better it were than bestial sleep. 

Shines not the same blue sky? 



26 



SPIRIT SONG 

r 

Wrapt in solitude am I 
Through the golden summer day, 
Come, ye dreamers, draw ye nigh, 
Where the woodlands wild have sway. 

Come where foam-flecked rivers pour 
By the swiftly moving trees, 
Murmurous against the shore 
With a song of distant seas. 

Come where charmed waters lie 
Circled by the dun morass, 
And the silent herons fly 
Startled o'er the sweeping grass. 

Come and tarry when the moon 
Penetrates the silvered trees, 
And the swaying needles croon 
Sweetly to the passing breeze. 

Seek but there and ye shall find, 
Where I cast my secret spell, 
Subtle runes that strangely wind — 
Ye alone may know them well. 



27 



THE LAST TRIUMPH 



When shall it be said, 
He is dead — 
Will they crowd me near 
Aping reverent fear, 
By the pallid head 
Once so dear? 

It shall not be so, 

That I know: 

Better far to die 

As the mists which fly 

Where the meadows glow 

To the sky. 

Ne'er a pious crowd 
Weeping loud: 
They'll not pen me in 
Where God's air is thin, 
Scented of the shroud, — 
Free I've been. 

O for some wild vale 
Deep and pale, 
Where the aspen trees 
Chatter in the breeze — 
In their branches frail 
Silvery seas. 
28 



Death might blanch my face. 

In that place. 

Nay but I would smile 

Cunningly the while 

As the form I'd trace 

Of my wile. 

How I'll curse them then, 
Tiny men ! 

How they cheat and fight, 
Prating of the right: 
But to cheat again 
Their delight. 

Great my joy will grow 

As their woe, — 

Long they've wished me wrong, 

IVe held silent long, 

Ne'er from me they'll know 

Life's sweet song. 

Deep they'd envy me, 
Could they see, 
How the precious thing 
From the world I'll fling — 
Vain would be their plea, 
Keen their sting! 

But it will be late 
Then, to hate: 
Knowing that in vain 
They must strive and strain, 
29 



I'll but leave their fate 
And the pain. 

Soft ! The fleet day flies 
From the skies; 
Soon my soul will sweep 
From its semi-sleep, 
Where great nature's eyes 
Vigil keep. 



30 



POSSESSION 



"The world is mine," the poet said, 
"And everywhere I go 
Its beauties linger in my head 
And form my treasures so. 

"I ofttimes chance upon a stream 
On some bright summer's day, 
And lo ! I catch the very gleam 
And carry it away. 

" I pass the landlord's frowning gate 
And stay a little there, — 
I steal his garden's hoarded state 
As others would not dare. 

"And oft upon an upland road 

I pause awhile to see, 

And miles and miles of fields new mowed 

I take away with me. 

"What matter if the day be fled, 
I own each brilliant view; 
The world is mine," the poet said, — 
I half believed it true. 



3i 



SONG 

r 

Drink of my sleepy wizard draught: 
Drink, for your cares slip near like ghosts; 
Swiftly they'll flee, and in I'll waft 
Wonderful, silken shadowy hosts, — 
Slowly they'll weave and beckon on, — 
On to a world without a stain: — 
Deep, drink deep, if you would don 
Silvery summer moods again. 
See all around you life's dull grey, 
Far from the joys fine souls require: — 
Shrink from the blighting hues of day, 
Come to the dusk land of desire. 
Love you the sun-tense woodland sounds, 
Or the cool strains of singing flute? 
Drink! thy best pleasure thee surrounds, 
Drink! and the chords of life are mute. 

Wander in the realms of dreams 

Stay, till all is as it seems; 

Never wake until the end, — 

Yes, the end is but of dreams. 



32 



THE MOON VIEW 



A luminous light veil is hung 
Along the winding river way 
The dimly outlined hills among. 

Above, the moon now takes her way 
In a wild radiant orb of haze, 
Alight with memory of the day : 

And a half-reverent silence stays 
The very wind, which all day sprang 
Along the fretted cedarn ways. 

Some brooding spirit seems to hang 
Above the earth, and seems to sing 
Some song which anciently she sang — 

Once — in the moonlight's shimmering — 
Crooned to an earth unguessed by man— 
The haunt of many an unnamed thing; 

When, as to-night, the huge hills ran 
That sweeping line above the mist 
And the wide-journeying moon began. 

33 



E'en Time, the subtle alchemist, 
But casts his hues upon earth's face, 
As limpid waters sunset-kist. 

And we, — but travellers in a place 
Where all besides is fixed and old — 
Or are we Age's latest trace? 



34 



BALLAD 



'Tis midnight in the castle tower 

As my lady passes there. 

She shields her candle as she may 

From the chill-starting air; 

Wan shines her face against the light, 

And the veil of her gold hair. 

She climbs to where the lonely wind 
Starts by the parapet; 
Where ceaselessly about the walls 
The dead leaves scritch and fret; 
And sorely does my lady sigh. 
And her pale cheek is wet. 

Hark! Far upon the open moor 

Has come the shrill cock's call; 

And soft she treads adown the stair 

And in the lofty hall; 

And she shrinks beneath the armor's glint 

From its proud place on the wall. 

At noon my lord may wind his horn 

Before the castle gate 

And long may curb his fretful horse, 

And turn again to wait; 

The wind is singing in the pines: 

My lady tarries late. 

35 



NIGHT 



Above the limpid stretches comes a cry, 
And yet another, and a secret fear 
Stirs deeply in the hearts of all that hear; 
And nervously the white boats hurry by. 

Swift the wide-sketching silvery ripples fly, 
And cross, and change along the greyish mere. 
As many faces crowd the spot, and peer 
In anxious eagerness, they scarce know why. 

And yet the lake, the beauteous, seems to glide 
From tint to tint, and the light arched trees 
Caress the water, and the glittering beach 
Still bends its slender curves in many a reach 
Of shallow coves. But men can only see 
The whitish limbs, — and silent, drift aside. 



36 



FATE 



Are we mere pieces in the hand 
That moves this universal Game — 
Whom one by one some Power has planned 
To follow some predestined aim ? 
Then Hope, thy burning words erase; 
This world is but an abject place. 

Are we a small and helpless kin 
Wide-strewn upon this planet's face 
Who, finding little cheer within, 
Beseech some cold indifferent Grace? 
Far better, then, no boon to seek 
For they should perish who are weak. 

O praise not him who fears his God 
But show me him who knows not fear! 
Who, springing from this common clod 
Lives out himself; then may appear 
The virtues that a whole world sees, 
The by- words of the centuries. 



37 



AMBITION 

r 

Like some faint bell far out at sea, 
When the west wind is moaning high 
And fast the smoke-edged breakers fly, 
Thy warning comes incessantly. 

Like fingers of the northern gleam 
Against the black of winter skies, 
Thy biddings still amaze my eyes 
In vast and ghostly shadow-scheme. 

Through many paths, by night and day, 
Unfathoming, I follow thee, 
For thou appearest real to me 
Above a phantom-haunted way. 



38 



THE GREAT QUEST 

r 

O Spirit infinitely bright 
That dost invest the circling sky 
And dwellest in the moon by night, 
On thee unceasingly we cry. 

When vanquished are the gods and creeds 
When superstition's jewels are reft, 
Where is it that thy promise leads? 
What in a rifled world is left? 

We clasped the ancient forms of clay 
On whose chill lips thy sign was prest — 
We bowed to them for many a day — 
Yet they lie shattered with the rest. 

They bade us bend before their shrine 
They spun strange tales of faery lore — 
They bound us with their holy sign: 
We turned from them for evermore. 

Attend us — we that cry to thee- 



Shed on our eyes that sacred light, 
Else toil we on a trackless sea 
Storm driven, through eternal night! 



39 



A MEMORY 



Well I remember 

A night when thou didst beckon at the door — 

I followed, and beneath the garden pine 

We sat together, and as ne'er before 

I gazed at thee. 

There in the semi-light, which filtered out 

From the low windows: there where music came 

And sounds of dancing steps, 

There for a few brief moments did I see 

Thy pure face — thy black lashes, thy chaste eyes 

Half closed, and at thy breast 

A red rose pinned. 

Well I remember, 
Never can I forget. 



40 



TO A FRIEND 

r 

Thy voice, as tender as the light 

That shivers low at eve — 

Thy hair, where myriad flashes bright 

Do in and outward weave — 

Thy charms in their diversity 

Half frighten and astonish me. 

Thy hands, that move above the keys 
With eager touch and swift — 
Whereby thy mind, with magic ease 
Doth into music drift — 
They fill me with a strange delight 
That doth defy expression quite. 

Thine eyes, that hold a mirth subdued — 

Like deep pools scattering fire — 

Mine dare not meet them in their mood, 

For fear of my desire, 

Lest thou that secret do descry 

Which evermore I must deny. 

Thy very quiet dignity 
Thy silence, too, I love- 



Nay — thy light word is destiny 
Decreed in spheres above — 
My mind, my heart is bowed to thee, 
And hard it is that I must flee. 

4i 



Hard is a world that dare not give 

For every love a place: 

Hard is a power that bids us live 

A life bereft of grace — 

Hard, hard to lose thy figure dear, 

My star and my religion here ! 



42 



THE OLD AND THE NEW 



Say not IVe known thee but of late: 
Nay, love, that cannot be: 
'Tis a long wait and a sad wait 
That my heart has had for thee. 

I've glimpsed thee all the summer long 
Athwart the wavering trees 
And the wind's song was thy song, 
And the singing of the breeze. 

In every joy IVe summoned thee 
And thou hast known my fears: 
Thou hast led me, yet fled me 
Through the mazes of the years. 

What though we wandered many a day? 
Our fate had bound us fast, 
And thy way and my way 
Were sure to cross at last. 

Then meet we but to part, my love? 
That word thou canst not say; 
'Tis a true love, and a life's love, 
And it turneth not away. 



43 



COMPLAINT 



IVe something I would sing to thee 

Now the year is old 

And the tempest's bold, 

And the stars are clear and cold. 

IVe something I would sing to thee 

When all meads are green 

And the sky's serene 

And the flower-scents float unseen. 

IVe something I would sing to thee- 
Which the pine trees croon 
To the summer moon — 
But thou scorn'st my tune! 



44 



WINTER 

r 

Hail Winter! Come, death-bearer high, 
Inscribe thy incantations grey 
Upon the vastness of the sky! 
Strike down the trees, and tear away 
The tattered garments of the leaves 
While the rich heart of Autumn grieves. 

The fields are blasted fearing thee — 
The living brook is chilled to stone — 
Thou comest ever ruthlessly 
And dwell'st eternally alone; 
The multitudinous birds are flown — 
Thine are the pathways of the trees, 
Thine are the lowland mysteries. 

Astound once more the sleeping hills 
With those swift minions of thy train 
The sorrowing winds, whose crying fills 
The countryside — twisting amain 
The pines that shiver in their pain — 
Shrieking aloud their ghostly glee 
In ever wider revelry. 

And often, when the winds are still, 
Conjure the softly falling snow 
Upon the waiting woods until 

45 



The cedar boughs are freighted low: 
And let the earliest daylight's glow 
Find all the world a white expanse 
Save where the spidery trees advance. 

And be it mine sometime to see 
The moon reign o'er some frosty night- 
And bathe with crystal clarity 
The meadows alabaster white — 
And trace its myriad shadows light 
Upon the surface of the snow, 
And fleck the silent stream below. 

And let me feel thy keenest days — 
When the hard glint is on the crust, 
And thread the naked forest maze 
Lashed with the cruel-driving dust — 
Hearing the wind forever thrust 
The clacking branches to and fro 
As its wild currents pause or flow; 

Or watch the sun's pale orb dip down 
Early below the mountain rim 
And leave an evanescent crown 
Of gold upon the tree-tops dim, 
Outlining every feathered limb; 
Until the drawing-in of night 
Erase the ambient color quite. 

And ever let the logs at eve 

Be emblems bright of inner cheer — 

However high the tempest grieve 

46 



Defiant merriment reign here, 
And as the midnight hour draws near 
Let more discordant sounds take flight 
To fit the embers' fainter light. 

Winter, the keener days are thine, 
The nights of deeper mystery; 
Make of the whitened town thy shrine, 
The fenced and tortured land set free — 
Bring back that younger world with thee 
That summons to the ancient strife, 
That sense of a forgotten life. 



47 



THE BOSTON SYMPHONY 
ORCHESTRA 

r 

Dark-coated men with instruments: a sound, 

Tentative, groping — as each seeks to pitch 

This string to that — this key — one knows not 

which, 

Each questioning note by other questions 

drowned. 

The blundering horns, with shining mouths and 

round, 

The 'cellos quivering their contralto rich, 

The pastoral flutes, whose crystal notes bewitch, 

Expectant all — till some accord be found. 

The leader lifts his slender rod, and lo, 

The turmoil dies — and as we strain to hear 

With one quick sweep the miracle is done — 

A myriad wandering tones are bound in one — 

One many-throated voice, impassioned, clear, 

Instinct with things we seek but cannot know. 



4 8 



A MEETING 

r 

A pretty face and a graceful form, 

And the music ringing in your ears, 

And the dance is swift, and the blood is warm — 

Then away with cringing fears ! 

Yes, I met her once in the soft lamp light 
And the light of that bright room was she — 
And we danced adown the summer night — 
What had she to do with me? 

O we thread our days in a waking sleep 
Down the dreary paths of toil and ease — 
But in sacred moments to life we leap, 
And this was but one of these. 

All of life was writ in her dark brown eyes 
And the smooth black magic of her hair — 
What cared we for talk of " whens " and " whys " ? 
She and I and Youth were there. 

You may have your immortality, 
And content this world I'll travel through, 
Where all time and all eternity 
Lie within an hour or two. 



49 



TO A STONE NYMPH 

r 

Poised on the brink of what clear pool wast 

thou? 

What faery spring sent that exquisite chill 

That held thee there that moment? Answer how 

Thou cam'st transfixed and still? 

Surely he caught thee with his human stare 
Unwitting, and thou wast amazed to stone 
Ere of his presence rude thou wast aware 
In those retreats unknown. 

I know thou canst not long endure the spell: 
Soon, soon wilt thou awaken with the dawn, 
And touching that imaginary well, 
Wilt shiver — and be gone ! 



50 



A RETURNING 

r 

It seemed a cup of shining gold, 

I raised it to my lips to drink — 

It was the draught of endless bliss: 

But ere its edge had met my kiss 

While my soul reeled at pleasure's brink, 

It vanished! And the world was cold. 

And though I dwelt in long despair 
And dreamt thereon by night and day, 
It lighted not my hours for me: 
E'en as I yearned that sight to see 
The hope grew dim and far away, 
The darkness heavier to bear. 

And sudden dost thou rise again 
Alight with days I had forgot? 
Thou very goal of my desire ! 
Nay, where is all that orient fire? 
O empty spectre! Whisper not 
That e'en such visions end in pain! 



5i 



REBELLION 

r 

Justice and law — morality — 
Highest boasts of the human brain — 
What are ye all, next to yon hill-slope 
And the woodlands wet with rain ? 
To the fragrant woodlands wet with rain 
And the lightening-red in the sky — 
What bring your dead philosophies 
To the moment that fleeteth by? 

Sweet are the clouds that stretch above 
Wrapt in the yellow evening light — 
Delicate airy shapes that move 
In a slow dance out of sight — 
In a silent slow dance out of sight 
Ne'er to be seen again. 
Yet to me they shine with a light unseen 
Like words of an old refrain. 

Never was wisdom half so deep 

Never was word so true 

As the fleeting gleam of yonder lake — 

As the sweep of the open view — 

Give me the sweep of the open view 

Where the outstretched foothills lie, 

And a straight road shining down the vale, 

And the burn of a sapphire sky ! 

52 



DEATH 



I saw at night upon the sky 

The clear path of a meteorite 

Blaze down unmeasured space and die; 

As if indeed the heavens were cleft 
By God's bright finger, and again 
Only the winking stars were left. 

My thoughts sang through their orbits high: 
My restless spirit questioned "why? ,3 



53 



REALIZATION 

r 

Now we have parted, and the day- 
Brings not the hope of seeing thee — 
Now thou hast taken that dark way 
That long I feared — one thing I pray: 
Forget me not! 

By daylight and by moonlight grey 
I swear I only think of thee; 
And often stopping by the way 
I say the things I did not say: 
Forget me not ! 

chide, upbraid me if thou wilt, 
I'll own my failings every one — 
Forswear the dreams that we have built- 

1 only ask to know my guilt — 
Forget me not ! 

Thy silence haunts me day by day 
And whispereth that in thy joy 
Of living, I am cast away — 
Yet once — O once — to thee I'll say 
Forget me not ! 



54 



TO S. M. S. 

r 

I would remember thee as at those moments 

When, novice-like, I waited at thy feet, 

And glimpse by glimpse thou didst reveal to me 

The glorious vistas and the noble plans 

Of which thy life was made; when all the wisdom 

That thou hadst gathered in thy many years 

Fell from thee like a soft and grateful light. 

I would remember thee as thou didst live 
Surrounded by thy children and their children, 
Watching and hoping — planning out for each 
What each should do — standing above us all — 
Bearing within thyself our inspiration; 
Eager to help, earnest and quick to praise. 

We grew and lived about thee — went our ways, 
But ever were we turning back to thee; 
And thou didst know us in our wanderings. 

We do not weep thee — thou who didst meet 

death 

Proudly yet meekly — who on that last day 

With eyes unbound didst render up thy life 

In thankfulness and peace. We weep thee not, 
For full completion never can be sad. 



'Twas shining victory, remote from fear — 
'Twas a brief passing to the perfect end 
Of that unswerving life ! 

I know not if thou soughtst eternal life; 
I only hope thou hast it, and to-day 
Thou livest on in us or some of us 
And ever wilt — in courage, love of truth, 
In wisdom or in quiet charity! 



S6 



WAYFARER'S SONG 



Where love is warm and hearts are true, 
Where man can strike and yet forgive, 
Where mirth is bold and skies are blue 
My life I'll live— my life I'll live! 

When faith and hope are ever high 
We'll all stride singing down the way, 
And though destruction's self be nigh 
We'll still be gay — we'll still be gay! 

Through all the watches of the night 
Our shout will rise against the sky; 
Howe'er the tempest vent its might 
We'll scorn to fly — we'll scorn to fly ! 

Nay when the world comes hard and grey 
And calculation's throned on high 
And fat contentment holds his sway 
A thousand thousand times — I'll die! 



57 



CREATION 

r 

Out of the stress of thought and all the sadness, 
Out of the fight for truth — the hate of wrong. 
E'en from the fiery moment of our madness — 
Glitters there forth a diamond of song! 



58 



TO BETTY 



Betty of the laughing face, 
Betty of the footstep light, 
You who flit from place to place, 
Partly human, partly sprite — 
Betty, when I think of you, 
Howso'er the years advance, 
I'll forget my sadness too 
And with you my heart will dance! 



59 



A HERETIC TO HIS MISTRESS 

r 

One word to thee — since I saw thee stand 
That evening which seems so long gone by — 
When the iron latch was at thy hand 
And thy hair in the candle-beam did fly 
And I caught the lightning of thine eye — 

the thousand ventures that I planned! 

A word to thee — even far away 
In the town in the dun Westmoreland hills 
Where'er thou art! For a thought they say 
Speeds like a winged shaft, and thrills 
Into the soul when a strong man wills — 

1 send my warm love to thee to-day! 

(How? Do ye heap the fagots high? 
Pitiful weaklings! What care I 
For these puny ropes on my hands and feet 
Next to life like thine were dying sweet !) 

I should have told thee — but that short week 

When I hid and dodged them from place to place 

How could an outcast wanderer speak 

Who scarcely dared to view thy face ? 

And the blessed moments fled apace 

And the vengeance came which they sought to 

wreak. 

60 



But thou art mine — 'tis the one thing true — 
For look met look, yea and hand touched hand 
And the winged minutes like swallows flew — 
And I left thee — e'en as the hungry band 
Beat at the door — thyself did stand 
And baffle the villains once anew. 

No; I spake not then — hence I tell thee now — 
For what harm now can the telling do ? 
What care the mob for my furrowed brow 
And the pure, deep, placid thoughts of you ? 
I breathe it to you — my heart is true — 
Forever true to you, Mary Low ! 

(Fie on you wretched herding sheep ! 
Thinking ye wake, ye do but sleep — 
Toil and pleasure — day by day 
Till the living spark be cast away! 
Would that this fire that springs below 
Into your bigot souls would glow !) 

I would not bow to the Tortured one? 
The holy writing I stamped and tore? 
I tell thee, Mary, yon rising sun 
Is more than the symbols that they bore. 
More than the blind gods they adore. 
Or the Triple Lie of the three in one ! 

Long is the toil and hard the way 
Searching and thinking — day and night — 
Winning and failing — ere a ray 
Shines on the fighter of the fight — 

61 



Shines on the seeker for the light — 
Sudden the veil is torn away. 

Mary, those years of slavery, 
Mary, those weary, sleepless years 
Carried me once, eternally 
Out of the clash of hopes and fears 
On the bold course a free man steers: 
Then to the haven light — to the el 

(Now the keen fire is creeping high ! 

Curse me, ye villians ! I would die 

Blest with your curses — stoned and gibed 

Till the very dregs I have imbibed 

The dregs of envy — the dregs of fear 

That choke life's wine when the end is near!) 

Ye holy gods of the summer night 
Ye gods that ride in the hard west wind 
And ye that live in the planets' light — 
Ye in my heart had I enshrined — 
Heaven enraptured, earth entwined. 
I ever lived a happy wight. 

Mary, I deemed that this was all. 

Deeply alert, I strode along 

Searching and following the call 

When my startled soul burst into song 

And I knew that the nameless gods were wrong 

And my life was pitiful and small! 



62 



The fire rises — I die- 



A word to thee — 'tis the candle-flame- 
It is enough that I once have lived 
Do thou live too! 

(God's curse upon ye all !) 



63 



ISOLATION 



Eternally apart are we, 

And as the planets glide 

Their narrow ways unchangingly 

'Mid all the starry tide. 

So must we live 

And fitful light to others give. 

Eternally apart are we 

Beyond the keenest sight: 

I have my own adversity 

To guide my course aright, 

Nor canst thou know 

The things I seek, nor where I go. 

Then do thou treasure jealously 
The flash that comes and dies, 
Engrave it on thy memory — 
Make it thy dearest prize: 
Lest it be true 
That I can never live in you! 



6 4 



AFFIRMATION 

r 

Must it again be so? 

Oh thou who treadest fleetly through my soul, 

For whom perhaps I do my proudest deed — 

In whose clear sight I fain would bare my 

thought: 

Must it indeed be so? 

Again, methinks, there will arise 

An unguessed Splendor — an imagined Grace 

Not of this world — a wondrous dazzling thing: 

Speechless and prostrate I await its word — 

It beckons and I come — it stops, I stay — 

I make for it a Temple, and I tend 

The flickering incense fires by night and day 

And sing brave hymns unto a Being strange — 

Too strange, alas, and cold! 

Again — O God! — that day 
When that high idol grovels in the dust! 
Then in my desolation shall I dwell 
Time beyond reckoning, and I shall think 
Bitter and piteous things, and well shall know 
My treasure grasped by ordinary hands — 
By careless human hands; and I shall turn 
E'en from the mountain tops, and there below 

65 



In the soft verdant meadows, there will shine 
My temple spires to mock me! 

Nay, but I know that it cannot be so, 

O thou who dwellest in my heart to-night, — 

Thou very gracious one! 

For hast thou seen two mighty forest trees 

Seeded in bygone centuries, which grew 

In neighboring spots apart, and year by year 

Each sapling drew unto the other closer — 

Branch intertwined with branch, then trunk 

touched trunk 

Until, united in a deep embrace, 

They raise their double foliage to the wind 

In single strength and perfect symmetry? 

O tell me, hast thou seen 

Two eager mountain rivers singing white 

In sunlit splendor from the snowy peaks, 

Mad with the dizzy plunge into the valley? 

And hast thou seen them with enraptured spring 

Mingle eternally, and murmur on 

In steadier, swifter march? 



66 



THE FALSE HOPE 



I sent my soul upon a great emprise 
Through many a desert and an arid land; 
I sent my soul and bade it fare afar: 
My soul has travelled true to sign and star 
From year to year unfailing — and I stand 
And wait, O soul, for tidings of the Prize. 

I sent my soul, and bade it travel straight 

Nor turn to right nor left — nor ever faint — 

And starved and shivering my soul pressed on, 

Through realms where light of day has never 

shone 

Nor living creature stirred — with no complaint; 

And on that path pale sorrow was its mate. 

I think, O soul, that was a hapless hour, 
And thou art breathless now, and at the last, 

soul, I think no treasure wilt thou find: 

1 seem to hear the echo of the wind 
Through proud and empty hallways, where the 
Past 

Stalks like a ghost, and in its hand is Power. 

Yet press thou on a little, for the light 
Wreathes the far hills — press on with fearless 
stride 

6 7 



Impatient of the cheats of time and place — 
E'en through the utmost vacancies of space 
Press on! Till at the last thou canst abide 
And bear to know thou well has lost the fight! 

Then, then, O soul, shalt thou retrace thy way, 
And I shall wait thee, and I well shall know 
Thou comest till I set another task: 
Then, in the wiser noonday, shall I ask, 
"O soul, dost know the way that I must go?" 
And thou, O soul, shall swiftly answer "Yea!" 



68 



ETHEL LEGINSKA 

r 

Leginska! Thou hast plunged deep to the haft 

The dagger of thy music in my soul, 

And no Lethean drug can make me whole. 

Thou art bewitched — thy wide-set eyes have 

read 

Beethoven's high and mystic tragedy, 

And Bach's rich scroll has not been hid from 

thee. 

Thou weavest thy spell about me! — and I know 
Thou swayest with a rhythm that is not thine, — 
And art afire with ecstasy divine. 

Thou art pure disembodied sound — thy hands 
Are quick with light — with gesture undesigned 
Thou strewest unknown treasures to the wind. 

Thou art the shivering reed, that in the dun 
And wide morasses where life's waters flow, 
Doth tell which way the eternal currents blow. 



6 9 



FRIENDSHIP 



My friend, 

Let me pour out to thee my inmost heart; 
The things that are deep seared upon my soul 
Let me reveal to thee. 

I do not come a coward seeking aid; 
I do not fear life's very swiftest blow, 
Nor flinch before the utmost test of all. 

Nay, I would say things which can scarce be 

said, 

But which weigh hard and deeply on my heart; 

Which clamor to be said. 

Listen to me, O friend, 

For know I not thy heart e'en as mine own — 

Are not thy secret thoughts my own thoughts 

too? 

Listen, for of all on earth 

I know thou changest least from year to year. 

Thou givest thyself for me: 

I give myself for thee. 



70 



AVE 



My heart is full, and yet my lips are sealed — 

Sealed are the secret pathways of my mind 

Where anguished hopes and fears, un trammeled, 

blind, 

Press upward into words and are revealed. 

My heart is fraught with yearnings deep con- 
cealed, 

With strivings of a spirit unresigned — 
Ye burning thoughts! be ye unconfined, 
Lest in too fierce a fire my soul be steeled! 

I sing the glory of a love unwon — 
Of her, so far remote and yet so near, 
Whom ever to have known is to revere. 

I sing a soul of shining fabric spun, 
A spirit radiant and quick as air — 
Whom yesterday I lost — and O so fair! 



7i 



THE SONNET 

Blind Milton knew thee, and with purpose high 

Thy deep majestic music did invoke, 

And strong and solemn words through thee he 

spoke, 

E'en unto truth eternal drawing nigh. 

Keats knew thee, and on wings of fire did fly 
To those far realms where beauty first awoke — 
Yea to her garment's hem — with daring stroke, 
And in a sonnet breathed it with a sigh. 

Why tarriest, O sonnet, incomplete ? 
Why dost not vanish, with perfection filled, 
From this unresting earth for evermore? 

Yet pausing, messenger with winged feet, 
My thought's ethereal liquid, thrice distilled, 
Into thy shining chalice let me pour! 



72 



PRESENCE AND ABSENCE 



Could I but know- 
That at this moment — wheresoe'er it be, 
Beloved, thou didst think of me! 

Would I might go 
Invisible, and bear to thee 
Some rapid mood of sympathy! 

I see thee now, in that accustomed chair 
With cheerful talk about thee everywhere, 
Alight with that calm understanding look: 
Or readest thou perhaps some well-loved book — 
Or dost thou flash upon my gaze perchance 
In mazes of the dance? 
Now — at this moment — as I picture thee — 
My spirit seeks thee out unerringly 
Through all the distance and uncertainty: 
Now some vague bidding fills thine eyes with 
thought 

And brings that sweet expression, sorrow- 
wrought. 

Fleet — on the wings of night — oh quickly speed 
Out of the shackled present — for I plead 
My spirit's secret need! 

73 



Ye fruitless, empty fancies — how your lure 
Entices me with beckoning obscure — 
And still the passing day fades into day; 
My love is far away. 

I saw to-day my distant mountain land 
Uprear its jagged rocks against the sky — 
Meseemed that I could touch it with my hand, 
Thither I go, my love — thou knowest why — 
To seek that treasure which I loved of old, 
Whose name thy heart hath told — 
Sun-gold that deep within those clefts doth lie 
Awaiting him who follows far and high, 
Who sees the sight unseen by mortal eye: 
Intent, companionless I go 
Where vast, unspanned, unfathomed, glow 
The treasures that my heart doth know. 
Some day with spirit blithe and free 
With step and spirit mountain-free 
I'll come forever back to thee — 
Some day — to thee. 



74 



POETRY 

r 

A strange flower dost thou nourish, poet, 
Which springs fantastic to the light 
And opes its curious petals wide, 
Complete and shimmering — many dyed — 
A thing apart and sanctified. 

A frail flower dost thou nourish, poet, 
Of fragile shape and texture light, 
To blossom darkly and aside 
In unguessed corners, and to hide 
In secret places, unespied. 

A living flower, O poet, is thine 
A yearning yet unsatisfied — 
A breath of flame across the night — 
A passion wrapped in deathless flight: 
A cry of hope — a promise bright. 



75 



PAGANISM 



I see the wasting and the strain: 

I see men falter on the way 

When hearts are wrenched and hopes are slain. 

My hands are bound — my strength is weak, 

The time-worn words I try to speak — 

The steps of time turn not again. 

Alas the falsity of earth — 

The struggle and the fatal power 

Of circumstance — the chance of birth — 

The fading vision they must know 

Whose step is weak, whose pulse is slow — 

When fleeting is the precious hour 

And priceless is the minute's worth. 

To God thou canst not lift thine eye 

In supplication self-deceived 

In false security to die — 

Thou canst not toy with fancies bright 

To hide the sombre hues of night — 

Far better has thy soul achieved: 

Far nobler is the victor's cry. 

I seek thy sorrow to allay — 
I raise an unavailing hand 
Another's destiny to stay — 

7 6 



And when I think thy way I see 
My very heart goes out to thee — 
The world is hard, the world is bland — 
Thou treadest thy predestined way. 

Go, then, — my only gift I'll give — 
For empty sham are all the rest — 
And gave I not I could not live: 
My love I give thee — take it then 
And thou art richest among men — 
And ownest of all gifts the best 
Though stricken and a fugutive. 

Ah withered be the outstretched hand 

Unmoved by love — and spurned the gift 

That binds me with no stronger band 

Than avarice and petty pride — 

The gates of life lie open wide 

The clouds of sorrow know one rift, 

And there is quiet in the land. 

Then let me drain the bitter drink 

And climb with joy the lonely road 

To dizzy heights whence flesh must shrink, 

If only I may pause and say, 

To others travelling the way, 

One word to lift the burden's load, 

One blessing on destruction's brink. 

There is no happiness but this — 
To learn more deeply as I go 
Through sorrow ever more than bliss — 

77 



With fortitude to bear the sight 
Of misery that knows not light- 
To love more deeply as I know- 
To seal my living with a kiss. 



78 



AN ANSWER 



Spare yet, O wielder of the lens and rule, 
Spare yet a place for contemplation pure — 
Be not contemptuous of that bolder school 
Who walk with equal step and vision sure 
The path where erring reason plays the fool. 

Set thou thy mete to pride and heavy care, 
Map the abodes of calmness or delight — 
Prison the flashing of a woman's hair — 
Or with that fabled keenness of thy sight 
Transfix the deadly blackness of despair. 

Hast thou not seen a vision on the hill 

As sweet Aurora sought the arms of Night ? 

Hast thou not known the stillness more than 

still 

Of waters dreaming in the evening light — 

Of woodlands fading slowly out of sight? 

Beware, lest he with beauty at his side 

Speak to men's hearts the blindness of thy 

creed — 
Strike in eternal words thy crabbed pride 
Where generations of the world shall read 
The shame of one that loveliness denied. 

79 



THE TRYST 

r 

Impatient one — why can you not wait? 
Your lover will come. 

When day is over and the scents of evening arise 

from the grass, 

When the last tint is dwelling in the west 

And one star shines — 

Then will thine image arise before him 

Then will his steps infallibly turn hither, 

Be not impatient, 
He will come. 



80 



THE BALLAD OF THE LOST 
DUTCHMAN 



To the God of open places 
My face is turned to-day, 
To the magic spell of the desert 
And the mountains of far away. 

A stranger here I wander 
Where the human currents flow 
In the herded darkness of the street 
Which the city dwellers know. 

And the soul of these is money 
And they know no rule but might, 
And my heart cries out for freedom 
From the prison house of night. 

OFm going to travel far from here 
Where a man has time to think — 
Where a generous soul is all you need 
And a heart that does not shrink. 

We'll take a pair of burros 

And a sack of flour or two 

And some spuds and beans and other chuck, 

With a gun to see us through. 

81 



For I want to go to a place I know 
Where the mountain cuts the sky, 
Where the slinking lion yells by night 
And the lonely screech owls cry. 

First we cross the glaring desert, 

And we creep from day to day 

Where the ground is dried with endless drought, 

And the lizards flash and play; 

Till at last the flat lands lie below 
And the giant cactus towers, 
And the wicked cholla hugs the rocks, 
And the okatilla flowers: 

Where the yellow rattlers cross your path, 
Just the color of the sand, — 
And the quail call down from rock to rock, 
And the vultures watch the land. 

And far in some narrow canon 
When the moon hangs full and bright 
You can hear the coyote's evensong 
Like the quavering voice of night. 

Now the cottonwoods lie far below, 
As we climb our narrow way 
To a little mud hole that I know 
Where the winter drippings stay. 

And the Four Peaks tower up on the right 
With their cliffs all veiled in snow, 

82 



And the pines are sighing in the wind 
As the shadows longer grow. 

O he came from over east, they say, 

All alone, and silent too: 

And he climbed up over the Four Peaks pass, 

If the tale they tell is true. 

And at last he came to the hot country 
And he didn't own a cent: 
But his pockets bulged with yellow gold, 
And he cared not what he spent. 

He came to town, and he hit a pace 
Which an old man shouldn't do, 
And the town was mad for four whole days 
At which time the gold was through. 

Then he stayed around in a helpless way 
And the boys they fed him free, 
Till a broken man, with strength all gone, 
He came to Bill and me. 

Well, he lingered on for a week or so, 
And we watched him when we could; 
But he talked in strange and unknown words 
Which we never understood. 

And when he knew that his end was near 
He beckoned me to come, 
And he showed me here on this little map 
Where his lot of gold was from. 

83 



And soon he died and we laid him out, 

And we buried him right there, 

And we marked his grave with a wooden cross, 

And his gold? We'd had our share. 

Do you see the place where the rock tips out, 
With the canon far below, 
And the crooked cedars stand out black 
Right against the line of snow? 

Yes, the gold is either down in there 
Where the cedar trees begin, 
Or right over on the other side 
Where those pines go running in. 

It's a hard, long climb above that cliff, 
But we'll have to make it, so 
Keep your fingers on the solid rock, 
And you dare not look below. 

No, I can't just say the reason why, 
But this town will kill me sure, 
And IVe got the fare, from here to there, 
And I need the water cure. 



8 4 



WAR 

r 

A moment from the burnishings of arms 
The marchings and the rests — the hurried call, 
I draw to nature, where the water charms 
The forests with its ghostly rise and fall, 
While the sweet breath of spring is over all. 

And now the glinting sunlight seems the flame 
Of youth that dared and died in years before. 
Or guerdon of a new untarnished fame — 
The spirit of the goal we struggle for: 
The noble freedom that I thought no more. 

Where now the cautions and the mocking lies 
That bound us in the slavery of days ? 
Where now the fears the coward deifies ? 
Ah stand we proudly now on other ways — 
Now dare we look on life with level gaze! 

Bursts forth anew the eager song of life, 
The ecstasy of blossoms and the sheen 
Of evening light on meadows shadow-rife- 



Of elm and willow clothed in shimmering 

green — 

The eternal surging of the force unseen! 

87 



I yield myself to thee — O sweep me on 
Across the seas of life — I am the flame 
That burns undimmed in ages without name — 
I am the breeze the swallow drifts upon: 
All I have loved and lived for can I gain 
With one swift shining stroke, nor count the 
pain! 



88 



A WISH FOR MY BOOK 

r 

Children of idleness! Ye motley crowd 
Of many-colored thoughts, ensnared and writ 
In this small book which holdeth little wit 
And less of profit — dare I claim aloud: 

"With these my words have I the world 

endowed: 

Stop and give heed"? Ah no! When poets have 

lit 

The centuries with rhyme, *t would strangely fit 

That I should deck you out with phrases proud. 

Go forth, my little book! And if thy stay 

Be brief, I'll wish thee not a longer day: 

And though thou meet contempt, 't will matter 

not, 

Thou hast my thoughts, I change them not a 

jot: 

My only hope for thee's embodied here, 

If but thou comest sweetly on some ear! 



8 9 



When pleasure dies 

There dwells no shadow of the last embrace. 

Oblivion and darkness creep apace 

Alike upon the careless and the wise 

When pleasure dies. 

When youth is done 

Desire has languished in the arms of care, 
The fire of heaven flames not in the air — 
And all eternity its course has run 
When youth is done. 

Then let us live 

To seize the winged moment ere it pass, 
E'en once to fill and drain the slender glass — 
If one impassioned rapture life can give 
Then let us live. 



9i 



RELIGION 



We live in an age of science and an age of 
doubt. The two are correlative. Each is the 
other's cause. There is scientific certainty, and 
as to all else there is doubt. 

In every age there have been isolated doubt- 
ers or groups of doubters: but the doubt of today 
is a widespread, all-pervading thing which the 
world has not known before. It rises from a new 
cause. 

From Galileo's time, science has fought a win- 
ning fight with authority. First-hand knowledge 
has been demolishing inherited knowledge, and 
the result has been the wonderful and un- 
dreamt of material achievements which make 
our civilization what it is. And the very starting 
point of science, whose progress is more like a 
fairy tale than fact, has been honest, conscien- 
tious doubt, a triumphant and revolutionary 
spirit of doubt. 

It is no wonder, then, that one by one the 
cherished dogmas of the church have been at- 
tacked and have succumbed. Science refuses to 
look at the world through the eyes of nineteen 
hundred years ago. Science will not be clubbed 
into submission, and shutting it in dungeons 

93 



seems only to sublimate it into something purer 
and more vigorous. It will not be chained, it will 
not be blinded. 

The church to-day must either teach obvious 
falsehoods to the credulous, or must retreat into 
the most tenuous of intellectual hinterlands in 
order to maintain its infallibility. 

To thinking men, the church is dead. To be 
sure, the forms of religion still sweep on with 
something of the ancient splendor, and claim lip 
worship at any rate from the greater number of 
us. The old forms are clung to with that strange 
tenacity which is often amusing, sometimes pa- 
thetic, always human. Many a man have I heard 
say, "Of course I do not believe in a personal 
God — nobody does to-day," and at the same 
time seriously resent the intimation that he was 
not religious. But, if you do not believe in a per- 
sonal God, what kind of a God do you believe 
in? A sort of omnipresent investing intelligence, 
you say? But what intelligence have you ever 
experienced, what intelligence is conceivable, 
which is not personal? 

We must definitely and decisively abandon 
"belief." Dogma — humbug knowledge, de- 
manding an effort of faith for its assimilation, 
that is to say a clubbing into insensibility of the 
intellect, is to-day a palpable fraud — a mere 
intangible shadow — an unconscientious thing. 

What is to fill the place of this religion, which 
until so recently was a virile and living thing? 
The needs which were satisfied by religion — if 

94 



any such there be — must still be asking sat- 
isfaction. How are we to appease them? 

Science — scientific thought — claims the right 
to fill the entire gap. Science as truth has daz- 
zled the world with its splendor of achievement 
— arrogantly it assumes to be the whole truth — 
and the dissenting voices seem dumb. The burn- 
ing question to thoughtful men to-day is ' 'Since 
religious teachings are untenable, where must 
we look for guidance ?" It is assumed that science 
offers the only answer. 

The church, under threat of an avenging prov- 
idence and of eternal damnation, enjoined upon 
us love of God, of our fellow-beings, and in gen- 
eral what is known as righteous and upright con- 
duct. 

To-day, no longer terrorized by God nor ask- 
ing any benefits of him, we say in a scientific — 
that is to say, thoughtful — way "why is this con- 
duct good?" "why is it righteous ?" We then 
conclude that "good" and "righteous" are la- 
bels which are appended to the course of conduct 
which is best for society at large. From this we 
deduce the rule that we should do those things 
which are for the good of society, and should 
avoid those things which injure society if we 
should prosper in the world. 

This is all very well so far as it goes, but are 
these data entirely to be trusted? Do they take 
the place of the principles, say, of Christ or 
Buddha? I think, most emphatically, no. For 
there is a realm which is as unknown to science 

95 



to-day as it is unknowable, — and is yet the 
most important factor in our lives. It has been 
called the realm of the soul. It is perhaps the un- 
conscious total of all our past experience — the 
sum of our conclusions, yearnings, aspirations 
and beliefs — of our successes and failures — of 
all we have lived in the past or hoped for the 
future. 

The processes of the subconscious part of our 
nature are deeply hidden — nor can we ever hope 
to disentangle, trace, or name them. Here, un- 
known to us, reasoning takes place in a flash — 
influenced by delicate factors of which we have 
no inkling — and a conclusion shines into our 
minds as an "intuition." Intuitions are at the 
same time the most perfect and the most inex- 
plicable expression of ourselves. It is the myth 
whereby the muse, a person from without, in- 
spires the poet to write. Who can give the rules 
for composing a symphony? The composer him- 
self knows them not. 

It is precisely here, at the most vital point of 
all, that blind science strikes a treacherous blow 
at our welfare. No less a person than William 
James, seeking in vain the social value of music, 
except as an exhibition of technical skill, declared 
it mere sensuous indulgence, — nothing more. 
By the scientific ideal, all serious-minded men 
should turn their efforts to something really ben- 
eficial to the community, and leave such idle 
baubles to those whose highest aim is to tickle 
their over-developed sensibilities, and whose 

9 6 



purpose is frankly self-gratification. Must we 
then choose between this doctrine and an im- 
possible return to the outworn superstition of 
the church? The church at least brought us 
grandeur of line — music, color, and restfulness. 
Our sense of beauty, of thought, of surround- 
ings, was satisfied: our craving for beauty was 
ministered to. Can science tell us that all this is 
not only useless, but is positively bad? 

Does not something rise within us and assert 
that this so-called scientific conclusion is a lie, a 
damnable and stultifying lie? What is this some- 
thing? Is it not a verdict arrived at by a far surer 
method than any articulate reasoning? Should 
we not then trust this, to the utter confusion of 
articulate reasoning, simply because we are in 
a realm too delicate for articulation ? 

No: let us discard God, immortality and mir- 
acle, but let us not be untrue to ourselves. Let 
science speak in its own realm — that of conscious 
knowledge — and where science stops let us go on 
much farther — knowing that we have the surest 
of guides. We must believe in ourselves. We must 
follow, and not stifle our instincts: we must fol- 
low our "inspirations," once called divine. In- 
stead of invoking divinity to earth, we of to-day 
must elevate ourselves to divinity — we must re- 
alize that all divinity is in us — that we ourselves 
are our own gods. 

Once we attain to this, any other "belief" 
seems needless. Rules and systems are nothing 
to us. It becomes our object not to do this be- 

97 



cause, by rule, it is good; or to avoid that, be- 
cause, by rule, it is bad — but sincerely to realize 
ourselves: nothing more, nothing less. Here is 
the one route to true happiness, which is the end 
of life. Let us then break all rules; let us refuse 
forever to be bound by any rule or limited by 
any fact. Let us obey the promptings of the 
spirit (I cannot discard the old terms), inscrut- 
able though they be. Every man, provided he 
is true to himself, is as "good" as every other, 
nor is he called upon to be a missionary if he 
would live the most perfect life. What matter 
whether he dig ditches or paint pictures? The 
bad people in this world are the unhappy peo- 
ple — equally those forced into lives of crime and 
misery and those who have forced themselves 
into lives of angular sanctity. Self-realization is 
the one rule of life — it cannot be resolved into 
principles of conduct — its progress can never be 
weighed, measured, tabulated, or directed. He 
who denies this denies himself — which is the 
most wretched thing in the world. 



9 8 



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